


Brugmansia

by grimsgay



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Animal Death, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, On the Run, Post-Canon, disturbing imagery, the dog dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2020-08-11 21:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20160208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimsgay/pseuds/grimsgay
Summary: Knowing that Purple is a stranger - a different person entirely - doesn’t make his heart throb any less or his longing any quieter. Sin isn’t here and he won’t be, no matter how Ja’far wishes it. He collapses, thunderous sobs quieted only by his inability to breathe. Worst of all, Purple is right there, hand on his shoulder, murmuring the same words he’s heard a thousand times over from a different tongue.He knows, then, how fucked he truly is. He’s trying to run from his tragedy, to submerge himself in isolation and emptiness. Yet, in the process, the universe has cruelly gifted him exactly what he seeks to flee. It’s rotten, putrid, toxic - worse, even, than the poison berries he’s still trying to cure. It’s absolutely crippling, and no matter how badly he wants to shove Purple away, to melt into the snow, and to dissipate into the atmosphere, he knows that in every possible outcome, he will choose to stay.Thus, Ja'far is left juggling a poison, an antidote, and a man who may be both.





	1. Of Bleeding Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Originally this was started for Bad Things Happen Bingo, then swapped to the Magi Big Bang, which got cancelled, and now it's once again being used for my Bad Things Happen Bingo card. For the prompt 'On The Run'!
> 
> This fic is dedicated to my wonderful beta reader, OllieTamale, who has never seen or read Magi, but told me they mostly pictured Disney Ja'far and Dreamworks Sinbad while reading this.

##  ( i. )

_ [Fast as a heartbeat, quick as a dream, soft as a memory - fingers, warm and pliant dance across battle marred skin, stretched tight over hollowed veins and softened edges. He does not cling to empty words, choked down betrayals or absent affections; there is only this Eros. It beckons him, fuels him, twists him - until his entire mortality is comprised of fire. _

_ Icarus is arrogant. He flies too close to the sun, he burns, and he perishes. He leaves nothing but ashes and agony in his wake. _

_ Ja'far is falling, lost in the horizon without his ex-lover’s wings, barely kept afloat under the tides of distraction. He is there when a coffin, empty of any body, is lowered into earth. He is there when a procession marches the streets, leading the few who dared mourn their lost king - but he is alone. None other but he shall bear the burden of these sorrows, for none other was so touched by  _ ** _his_ ** _ might and flames. _

_ He is alone, standing on the horizon. He waits for dawn to find him and for his king to call to him once more.] _

Ja'far dreams in monochrome. It’s the third time he’s fallen asleep while working, and the third time, Drakon apparently decides, is quite enough. Ja'far has been known to overwork himself - it’s not unusual for him to fall asleep on his desk.  _ This _ is different. When he wakes to palace staff, mere meters from the water’s edge, Sindria’s new king steps in.

“Drakon,” Ja'far murmurs, voice soft.

“Go.” The king says. “Take some time off. I can’t have my best friend working himself to death over a dead man.”

“Where… will I go?”

“Anywhere. Just… Please take the time you need to grieve.” 

He listens, if only because he knows deep down that his friend is right.

*****

The capital of Mistania is a thriving port city in the country’s southern tip. It reminds Ja’far of any other capital city he’s been to, just with the addition of thick, blanketing snow. Despite the layer of ice, the streets are bustling. The residents are accustomed to the cold, and likely, they’ve never known much else.

The memory of Drakon is bitter in Ja'fars mind, especially now that he is so far from home, bundled in layers of furs and leathers he’d never considered existed. He thought a change would help conclude his soul-searching, but so far has found nothing but chattering teeth and numb fingers. 

_ And realistically, a numb heart. _

His loss is still raw - but he won’t admit to its presence. Sometimes, he wonders if he can force the wound to close. That’s how healing works, but he knows that magic doesn’t extend to matters of the mind. He is  _ alive,  _ he should be  _ grateful - _ but every day alone is another chore. He’s dragging his feet; that’s why he’s here, but knowing that just worsens the rotten aftertaste.

He wanders, he shops, and he looks for a distraction. The city, for being so new and unfamiliar, is full of reminders. Hands ghost his own, fingers brush his side, his cheek - he remembers  _ his  _ hands, more than anything; gentle, warm, loving things. No matter how he tries, he can’t find reprieve. 

The city offers little, he decides; even after days of wandering, Ja’far does not find a solution. 

*****

It’s the wilderness that halts his search. The Interruption is not natural; the bright flash of sunlight glimmering off sharpened steel is what jolts his instincts to life. The dagger embeds itself into the snow before Ja'far has the chance to fully react, but he’s reeling. His mind jumps backward as muscles carry him through choreographed movements. He does not see his enemy yet, but he knows. Oh, he  _ knows. _ It is a thrill he has not experienced in years of deskwork. Perhaps, if he were to stop and evaluate his fitness, he might find himself at a disadvantage. 

He has not fought in some time.  _ (Sparring doesn’t really count, does it?) _

He grew soft. ( _ He did not.) _

He should run.  _ (He has missed this.) _

There is blood, the scent rotten and foul but so  _ enticing  _ as he digs virgin daggers deeper into mortal flesh. His pupils dilate, eyes wide and manic, actions instinctual and  _ dangerous.  _ He does not ease his grasp on the weapons, not even as viscera pours onto snow. He pierces, stabs, and slices until there is no other breath left - then, he collapses into the cold.

He’d never considered himself soft, but sitting here, surrounded by carnage, he knows he’s let himself go.  _ He’d needed this. _

It is that lingering softness that clouds him from the last attacker. He is suddenly pinned, back pressed rigid into icy ground, metal kissing at his throat. He snarls as he tries to throw the figure off of him, but before he can gather enough strength to succeed, there is more blood. 

The body goes limp. 

Ja'far shoves the corpse away, rolling to the side and gasping for composure. He’s  _ weak.  _ He never would have missed such an unskilled bandit  _ before _ . He’s  _ pathetic.  _ His coughs and chokes are soothed by a friendly hand on his shoulder, and Ja’far glares sideways, nerves ablaze.

The universe breaks around him.

There is a man, roughly six feet tall, decently muscular, short-haired, and vibrant-eyed. He has the messiest patch of facial scruff Ja'far has ever seen, but the man still looks quite handsome. Average, attractive, alluring; whatever Ja'far thinks to call him is lost on his tongue as the man steps forward and extends a hand. 

“Hey, I’m called Purple.”

Ja'far chokes.

Really, it’s not that the name doesn’t suit him - because oh,  _ does it _ \- his hair is a deep, royal purple. Yet, that in and of itself  _ is the problem.  _ It’s familiar -  _ too _ familiar. 

“Are you-“ he doesn’t get to finish his comment, however, as Purple interrupts him. 

“It’s not safe to be out here at night, you should come join my caravan. Our camp is nearby.”

There’s no adequate time to decide. The hand is on his forearm again and then he’s led away from the remnants of his slaughter. 

*****

The caravan welcomes him as his own country would; with warmth and hospitality he is undeserving of. They are simple merchants, not related by blood, but bonded nonetheless. They look out for their own, even if their own are a gaggle of outcasts and orphans- Many of them had nowhere to go before joining the caravan, and Purple seems no different. 

Purple is an anomaly, in both the best and worst of ways. Ja'far learns little about him, considering how little he actually remembers. 

_( “Yeah, they call me purple because I can’t remember my name,” Purple had said._ _“Can’t remember much of anything.” )_

He dances and mingles with his caravan members as though he is one of them - and, memory loss aside, Ja'far can see that he  _ is  _ one of them. He is vulgar yet humble, and maintains an aura of dignified disarray- Under his scruff, there is a layer of nobility.

The exact kind Ja'far has served for years, and the very same he’s come to try and mourn. He thinks that, were Sin here too, he would’ve been dancing alongside the merchants.

The universe is cruel, he knows. He’d seen Sinbad die with his own eyes- There’d been no corpse to confirm his death, but no physical body, mortal or otherwise, could withstand the fire and agony Sin’s had been subjected to. Likeness aside, Purple is a different man.

Telling himself that does not push away the anxiety settling in his lungs. It doesn’t stop his nerves from leaping when Purple smiles from across the fire as he approaches. It doesn’t stop his flustered but hopeful reciprocity as he’s handed a bowl of stew. Even as he eats, flavor failing to hit dead taste buds, he can’t help his staring. 

He’s not felt so disarrayed in years and isn’t sure he’s ever been quite so _ bad _ . Each bite of tasteless food pushes his appetite further to the void, and it’s all because of the eyes fixated solely on him. Ja'far shudders. 

Even when he finishes, and Purple sits beside him in the snow, he feels on edge. He sets down the empty bowl and mutters, “thank you for the meal.” His eyes are averted, desperate to look  _ anywhere  _ but at  _ him- _

Purple nods. “They make good food.”

Ja'far doesn’t mention that he’s unable to taste; It would serve no benefit, and would likely upset his hosts. 

Purple hums, eyes thoughtful. “Why are you out here, anyway? You don’t seem like the wanderlust sort.”

“No. I’m not.” Ja'far sighs. “Closure.”

“Closure?”

“I lost someone dear to me awhile back; a close friend insisted I take proper time to process. I’ve been traveling in an effort to appease him, but so far it’s just making the longing worse.” 

“So you’re on a journey of mourning? Seems tragic.”

“I suppose.”

They both fall silent, and Ja'far is left with the overwhelming realization that this is his first moment openly speaking on his grief. Even with Drakon, his dear friend who  _ knew _ what had happened - had  _ been there -  _ even then, he did not speak. He let implications carry his responses.

Funny, then, how someone so eerily similar to his lost charge can coax the painful truth from him when they are strangers in all but name. Perhaps it is the resemblance - he could never hide from Sin.

Purple continues, “you could change the meaning, you know. Say you’re on a journey of self-discovery and new friends. Don’t let your friend’s memory die out, but don’t live a life they’d be sad to see you living.”

Ja'far sighs. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” This man even has Sin’s infuriating knack of saying all the right things at the right moments. “What about you, why are you traveling?”

“Ahh- well. I’ve had a sense of longing.”

Ja'far’s senses perk at the response, fingers twitching with curiosity. He wants to ask, to know more, but before he is able, once again, Purple cuts him off.

“Ja'far… I think it foolish of me to ask- you’re your own person, a stranger, and you have your own reasons for traveling. I do not expect you to say yes, and I will not fault you if you can’t even consider it-“

“Speak your mind, don’t ramble,” Ja'far interrupts. 

“I feel that traveling alongside you might help me regain my memories. This caravan is nice, but you seem different - your fighting style is familiar… It might help me remember things I’ve lost.”

“You want to travel together?” It’s… a lot for Ja'far to take in. Purple is still eerily similar to Sinbad, and memories or not, he’s struggling to separate himself. Traveling with the man might have a comforting effect on his grief, but would it really be healthy? Likely not.

Saying yes would feed into his fantasies, and yet…

“If it’s not too much to ask, then yes.”

Ja'far wants to say no. He wants to bite his tongue and deny any of the feelings bubbling through him. He doesn’t. “I- Yes. I will travel with you.”

He hopes he won’t regret it.

*****

Less than a day has passed since their split from the caravan and they come face to face with a beast neither monster nor man. Its appearance is not familiar. It’s large, white, and fluffy, like the tigers he’s seen in Reim’s colosseum. Yet, it’s face and snout are distinctly canine. With a soft and familiar whine, Ja'far is able to confirm that it  _ is _ a dog, albeit a dog unlike any he’s ever encountered before. It must be a breed unique to Mistania.

The dog barks once - a greeting - and turns away. It barks again, and without pause, it runs. Ja'far, curious, follows.

Silent paws set the pace, ghosting through the frozen landscape. Ja'far matches the speed, sinking into the role of the hunter - one he’s seldom felt since his domestication. It feels good to return to his wild roots, yet Purple’s lack of precision or subtlety ruins his immersion. It’s impossible to forget what he’s grown into as long as human footsteps break his ethereality. He isn’t a hunter, not anymore. 

Maybe that's for the best, though. The canine guides them towards a cave maw, dark and mysterious. Upon stepping inside, whatever remains of Ja’far’s predatory facade vanishes. He is no longer a hungry beast, but a mother bear, concern flushing to his fingertips and transforming his steps to bounds. 

On the ground is a small child, likely no older than five or six. Her thin frame is swaddled in oversized rags, and her shoes are tattered at best. She looks bedraggled, miserable, and pitiable with how unhealthy her complexion is - but this he notices second to the wretched scent of sickness.

Ja'far is at her side before Purple even sees her, hands pressed firmly to her heated face. He frowns, actions manic, glancing around the cave in an effort to find something -  _ anything -  _ that may help alleviate her fever. He does not find a solution, but he does find a  _ cause _ . Berries - red, plump, and deceptively juicy - lie scattered by her head, and in the remnants of her stomach.

His heart sinks.

“Purple- I need you to get a fire going.” He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t feel he has the  _ time _ to do so. 

Purple frowns, stepping closer to inspect the girl himself. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Poison,” Ja'far snaps. “A fire, please.” 

These few words are enough to spur Purple into action and Ja'far is left alone. He pulls a small bundle from his travel pack; his supply is sparse, but he keeps all the most common antidote ingredients in small bundles in case of emergency, plus some of the most important but difficult to acquire ones. It’s a long shot, given these berries are not a variety he’s familiar with, but he’ll do his best. He won’t let a  _ child _ die, stranger or not.    


He’s able to mix a rough concoction by the time Purple returns, setting firewood in the center of the cave and sparking flint against it. The light exaggerates how fragile this child is, and Ja'far has to bite his tongue to maintain focus. He presses the mush of ingredients into the girl’s mouth and coaxes her to swallow, pleased that it goes easily enough. She splutters, but luckily, doesn’t choke. Now, they can only wait.

*****

Much to both of their relief, the girl’s condition improves. Her color stabilizes some, her breathing evens out, and eventually, she finds an expression of serenity in her fevered sleep. Her temperature still does not return to normal, but then, Ja'far knows some poisons take longer to recover from. With a couple more doses and some rest, she should be fine; she has shown her resilience. 

Ja'far is left to evaluate the situation. 

He’s torn in his emotions. He wants to yell or cry - something - to express the chaotic turmoil swirling in his chest. But he can’t. He needs to focus, lest the girl wake or relapse. Sin would be cracking jokes right now, telling him things are fine, making small talk- but  _ Sin _ isn’t here.  _ Purple is. _   
  
Likeness aside, Purple is a different man.  Purple might be maintaining a casual attitude in the face of death, but it’s likely to keep himself calm. There’s no way a stranger would be able to pick up on his panic, and even less of a chance he’d act to counter it. Ja'far is merely projecting, he knows, but it doesn’t make the experience any less painful. The stabbing in his heart is still there.

“She’s cute… Needs proper clothes though.”   


Ja'far flinches. “She was dying an hour ago.”

“She isn’t now, thanks to your knowledge of poisons.”

“I got lucky. It was a complete guess.”

“Then, to luck.” Purple shrugs. “Though, I do think you should give yourself more credit, Ja'far. Think more highly of yourself, and maybe you won’t be as weighed down by your loss.”

Jafar feels a knife slit his tongue as he mixes the final antidote dose, his argument rendered obsolete. Purple was right, once again, just as Sin would have been in any similar situation. Purple has no reason for his accuracy in reading Ja’far’s emotions, and it  _ irritates  _ him to no end. Even worse is knowing that Purple is  _ right _ . He’s always fucking right - but he isn’t. He can’t really be, because this is the first time he’s ever called Ja'far’s doubts for what they are-

Knowing that Purple is a stranger - a different person entirely - doesn’t make his heart throb any less or his longing any quieter. Sin isn’t here and he won’t be, no matter how Ja’far wishes it. He collapses, thunderous sobs quieted only by his inability to breathe. Worst of all, Purple is right there, hand on his shoulder, murmuring the same words he’s heard a thousand times over from a different tongue.

He knows, then, how fucked he truly is. He’s trying to run from his tragedy, to submerge himself in isolation and emptiness. Yet, in the process, the universe has cruelly gifted him exactly what he seeks to flee. It’s rotten, putrid, toxic - worse, even, than the poison berries he’s still trying to cure. It’s absolutely  _ crippling,  _ and no matter how badly he wants to shove Purple away, to melt into the snow, and to dissipate into the atmosphere, he knows that in every possible outcome, he will choose to stay.

Thus, Ja'far is left juggling a poison, an antidote, and a man who may be both.


	2. Valley Lily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Purple states at him. “Are you dumb?”
> 
> “Excuse me?” Maybe he is, he’s never had good judgement surrounding his desires.
> 
> “I want you, Ja'far,” Purple says, and the world melts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me a very long time to edit because I am not really in the magi fandom anymore, but I got it done... The last chapter will be posted at a later date.
> 
> I'd like to thank both BastetCG and Ollietamale for helping me with this fic! I couldn't have achieved such quality without you both! <3

## ( ii. )

The girl’s name is Fenya, and she is a _ princess. _

She tells him this proudly when she wakes up energized and fever-free. He asks her, if she’s a princess, why are her clothes tattered and filthy?_ (Because she’s in disguise, she tells him.) _ Why is she alone, with only a dog as a guide? _ (Easy, because she lost her mom and dad- but it’s okay because they’re waiting for her at the capital.) _ Why, of all things, did she try to eat poisonous berries? _ (She was hungry, and they were pretty.) _

Ja'far doesn’t believe her. 

He was an orphan himself, once. He knows how eager and desperate the poor can be, and he knows that any child impoverished enough will believe whimsical fantasies of royalty and magic, if only to assuage their struggles. Fenya swears across the heart that her parents are real, alive, and waiting for her. That, at least, he takes as fact - but Fenya, for all her insistence, is not of royal blood. 

Purple nods as she talks, so enraptured by her nonsense that he must be acting. He is still entranced when Fenya tells them of her dog, Kostya._ (Kostya is her guardian, now, and was trained to protect her, she says. Kostya will only listen to her-usually.) _ Purple listens. Ja’far does not.

The idea that a dog can function as a bodyguard isn’t _ new. _He’s seen far stranger things in his travels with Sin. He merely wonders how a street urchin ended up with such an intelligent beast.

When Fenya finally sleeps, Purple approaches him. 

“What do you think?”

“I don’t believe she’s royalty, not for a second.” Ja'far frowns.

“Me neither. But we can’t just leave her here,” Purple says. “I think it’s worth at least checking out this family in the capital. She can’t rely on an animal to get her there.”

“Mmm. I hope there is some truth to her tales. She doesn’t deserve the life of an orphan.” 

At this, Purple raises a brow and asks, “Speaking from experience?”

“Irrelevant.” Ja'far cuts his travel companion off there. He has no intention of telling Purple about his past–not when he’s only ever told his closest brothers in arms. (_ And Sin _, is what he almost adds, but refrains.) He won’t bring it up with a stranger. His experiences are his business, and his alone.

“Fine.” Purple nods, thankfully dropping the topic.

As they settle in to sleep themselves, Ja'far makes two vows; he will not share his personal experiences with Purple, and he will _ never, _under any circumstances, allow friendship to bloom between them. They are just fine as travel companions.

*****

They stay in the cave a few days longer; long enough to ensure Fenya’s full recovery, but not to attract the attention of bandits or wildlife. During this time, Ja'far hunts. He’s out of practice at first, managing to catch only small animals that linger too long around frozen vegetation. He keeps trying. 

By the third day, his lethality returns. 

He creeps through the snow, the hood of his pale cloak pulled over his head, and a matching cowl concealing his predatory expression. The prey he tracks is easily as large as he is, with long, athletic legs, jagged, spiraling horns, and velvety fur. It’s not like any animal Ja'far has hunted before. It doesn’t deter him. 

The beast goes down pathetically fast, or maybe he’s finding his place again. The thirst for a good hunt has taken hold of him, and his instincts are finally catching up. He flies forward, dagger piercing through the creature’s skull. By the time he comes to a halt, the body has hit the snow, and the ground is splattered red. 

Dragging his kill back to their meager camp is difficult. He’s fit and has a fair amount of muscle on his body from a life of athleticism, but he’s never been as strong as some of his allies. He much prefers stealth to brute force. The animal is massive and _ heavy, _ and by the time he returns, Purple looks almost _ relieved _to see him.

“I thought you might’ve been ambushed,” his travel companion says.

Ja'far shrugs, throws the beast down, and gets to work butchering it. 

Fenya, at some point, wobbles over to him, her face displaying equal amounts of disgust and curiosity. “Why do you have to hurt it.”

Pausing his work, Ja'far sighs. “Would you rather eat vegetables?”

Fenya makes a face at him. “Vegetables are gross!”

“Well,” Purple softly says. “We don’t have any vegetables. Just meat.”

This seems to pacify her enough and she returns to play with Kostya, who seems content to sit and take whatever pestering the child provides him. Ja'far smiles awkwardly at Purple, grateful for the assistance, though it is an action he afterward regrets. They aren’t friends. He’d promised himself that. 

Yet…His vows linger over him, enormous, weighty things. No matter how much he stabs, cuts, and maims, he cannot stop himself from staring at the very man he desperately wants to ignore.

*****

Ja'far wakes one morning to an empty bedroll and the soft snores of a child. He thinks, for a moment, that it must still be night, that Purple merely stepped out for a moment; but there are tracks in the snow, which lay repeated and fluried, before they inevitably lead off into the wilderness. Ja'far has always been the first to rise, being a light sleeper, so immediately, his nerves are alight.

And for good reason, he thinks, as he approaches purple. “You’re never up this early,” he says, though it’s half-hearted and forced, tension clear in his tone.

Purple does not respond.

“Did you want to watch the sun rise?” Ja'far still doesn’t get a verbal answer, merely a shrug, but it’s likely the best he’ll get.

There is a moment of silence where neither of them speak. Would he ask Ja’far to leave? It would not be rude. They barely know each other, they aren’t friends, and whatever bothers Purple is hardly any of his business. 

Eventually, purple speaks. “How do you know if a memory is real?”

Ja'far frowns. “I trust my gut.”

“I see.” Purple goes quiet once again, placing hands gently to his throat. “I… Remember chains. Shackles. Around my wrists and my throat.”

Ja'far’s blood thins, his nerves bleeding out from the edge of Purple’s words. He isn’t sure what to say, not now, not ever. He knows where this conversation is going, has heard this story before–

_ [“Sometimes,” Sin had said, eyes distant, “all I can think about is the feeling of that collar, and I forget where I am, here and now.”] _

He really doesn’t want it to continue. 

Purple isn’t Sin, isn’t his friend, and Ja'far isn’t obligated to listen. If he wants, he can simply walk away, go back to sleep, and pretend this encounter had never occured. He can pretend Purple doesn’t share such a significant commonality with a dead man, that he’s just some guy from some far off village that Ja'far’s never been to. 

Instead, Ja'far lets Purple continue.

“I don’t want this to be real. I don’t-” Purple hesitates. “What if I was a slave? What if I still _ am- _What if there’s someone out there looking for me? It feels wrong, off, somehow–beyond the concept of slavery–but I can’t remember anything more.”

“I don’t think you’re a slave. At least not anymore.” Ja’far is acting on impulse now. There’s something rotten, nestled into his vocal chords. It’s wrong, he knows, to speak to a stranger like this, as though he knows things that neither of them do. _ As though Purple is someone else, and he has the right to pacify this man’s fears. _“If you say it’s wrong, then it’s wrong. Trust your gut.” He closes the gap between them, then, gentle fingers brushing over Purple’s shoulder. “You seem strong, Purple. Healed. If you were a slave, you definitely aren’t anymore, and I won’t let you go back to that.”

Purple nods, but frowns at him, eyes confused. “Why would you help me?”

And the answer is that he shouldn’t, it’s not his business. But he will. “I was born in low places, and lived my younger years less than human. Someone dear to me gave me a new start at life. You remind me of him.”

“Thank you, then. I’m grateful.”

They stay there for some time, discussing the mundane and enjoying their shared solitude. Despite the boring nature of the subject matter, Ja'far finds himself enraptured by Purple’s gentle laugh and soothing voice. 

By the time they travel back to camp to wake Fenya, Ja'far has broken both of his personal vows.

*****

“Why is there so much snow?”

In the week or so they’ve traveled with Fenya, Ja'far has learned many things about her. She doesn’t mind vegetables if they’re mixed into stews, and she doesn’t care much for sweets but will eat just about anything given to her. She was named after her grandmother, who she swears was of royal lineage. She can only sleep if she has someone (or something) warm to snuggle, which isn’t an issue when Kostya remains ever by her side. 

Ja’far also learns that she really enjoys asking questions. 

“Well, the weather is cold, so the rain freezes into snow.”

“Oh. Why is it cold?”

“We’re in the north.”

“What’s the north?”

Ja'far shrugs, not giving a verbal answer. When she accepts that the topic is dead, she finds a new one.

“Why do you have short hair?”

“Why do you have long hair?” Ja'far counters, drawing an amused chuckle from Purple.

“My mom said I have to have long hair, but I don’t like it.” 

Ja'far wasn’t really expecting an answer, but it’s better than another question. 

Then, Purple chimes in. “You look very lovely with long hair, Lady Fenya.” And _ oh, _ Ja'far knows he’s playing along, pandering to Fenya’s childish imagination, but she certainly doesn’t catch on. She’s _ six _, for Solomon’s sake. 

Fenya scrunches her facial muscles, gripping tighter to Kostya’s fur, and eventually, she shakes her head. “You should have long hair. You’d look pretty.”

“Oh? An interesting thought.” Purple raises a brow and turns, facing Ja'far, _ and oh, here he goes again, with that fucking look. _“What do you think?”

Ja'fars mouth is dry, and suddenly he’s back in the desert, burning up in the arid sands as he struggles with his conflict. There’s no doubt that Purple _ would _ look absolutely stunning with longer hair, but he’d also look more and more like _ Sin _, and Ja'far really doesn’t need another reminder when they share so many traits already.

But as always, his lips betray him.

“Yes, I think you would.”

(Purple decides to grow it out, and Ja'far laments his lack of restraint.) 

*****

Fenya _ is _a princess. It isn’t she who persuades him in the end, but the dagger that flies towards her when they reach the capitol. 

They’re traveling a side street, removed from the crowds so that Kostya does not scare any citizens, when Ja'far notices the silence. There shouldn’t be such an absence of sound _ anywhere _, least of all a city, yet the only noise is the soft chatter between Purple and Fenya, and the patter of their feet. There is no other human noise around them, no ambience or echo of life. Ja'far can’t even feel the wind. He knows before he sees or feels it, that the dagger is coming, but he doesn’t react as quickly as he should.

He shoves Fenya to the side–an action that he’ll later regret when she flinches around him–and throws his forearms to up to block the blow. His own blades are absent, and blood drips from his palm where the edge sank in, but Fenya is _ safe. _

It isn’t over. Purple and Kostya react with haste, joining to form a protective barrier of weapons and fangs. The attacker, while stealthy in the beginning, loses patience, and emergences the moment he realizes his throw has missed. Ja'far bears his teeth, competing with Kostya in animosity. He is feral, and he will slaughter any who dare harm his allies. 

Before Purple can rein him back, Ja'far is moving anew. He is a whirlwind of furious motions, his grip on his blades tight and stable, and the malicious intent clear in his swings. He pins the attacker to the ground in a heartbeat, daggers pressing firmly into the man’s hands. They do not fully pierce through his palms, but they do make him _ bleed, _ and that is enough. He ignores the way his hands grip the blades, not the handles, he ignores the way Purple’s concerned shouts echo behind him and the way Kostya barks, growls, and _ snarls _ . Mostly, he ignores how Fenya sobs. There is only his desire to _ maim and harm. _As his blood mixes with the stranger’s and pools beneath them both, Ja’far feels both satisfaction and adrenaline cling to him.

“What is it you want?” Ja'far snarls, pressing metal deeper.

“Death to the crown!”

Ja'far narrows his eyes.

“The princess must die-” 

_ Princess. _ It clicks, then, and Ja'far doesn’t wait any longer. There is a rush, a thrill, as he withdraws one blade and swipes it across the man’s throat. The cut is clean, and as Ja'far stands, he is grateful for the protective barrier of his allies. He does not wish for Fenya to see the carnage.

Her eyes widen when she sees his hands, slicked red from his own tools. “Mister Ja'far? Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” he murmurs, turning his attention to Purple. His friend gives an understanding and serious nod, shooing Fenya away from the corpse, mere feet from them.

“This changes things. We need to find someplace safe and figure out a new plan.”

He disregards the fluttery feeling he gets when Purple’s hand lingers a little too long on his shoulder.

*****

After, when they make it back to safety and he’s given adequate time to process, Ja'far wonders when he let himself imprint. That’s what it has to be, he knows. It’s foolish, unhealthy, and an absolute disaster, but it’s his reality. He can’t outrun the past, let alone the present.

(Years prior, if Ja'far had been asked whether or not he wanted children, he wouldn’t have answered. Instead, he would have shaken his head, chugged more coffee, and done everything in his power to avoid the subject in its entirety. It was of little consequence to him whether he ever found someone to start a family with, but families and domestic matters were always in the back of his mind, secondary to the work he did.

It was never a dislike of children, he thinks. Certainly, it must show now, when Fenya is cradled in Purple’s lap, dead to the world, and Ja'far can do nothing more than smile fondly. She is comfortable enough, but Ja'far wonders how far her comfort and trust in them actually runs, and how much longing for her parents remains. She is old enough that their loss is a significant weight to bear, but small enough that she may simply move on.

Ja'far, even if he didn’t like children, wouldn’t have the heart to tell her no. He may not know what to do and he certainly doesn’t trust his instincts (he’s not nearly as motherly as his peers and friends make him out to be), but he’s far from heartless. He isn’t cruel.

He wonders, though. 

Had he and Sin lived a normal life, even as royalty…had they been able to marry, to settle into politics without the weight of godly ambition, and to grow old together…would Sin have wanted children? Ja'far can’t speak or decide for a dead man, nor would he even want to try, but Purple makes him dream–

He hates that.)

Purple handles Fenya with such care and adoration that Ja'far has found himself fantasizing of domesticity. His false daydreams will never come to pass, and he’s uncertain he’d even want them to, but watching as Purple had strokes Fenya’s hair until she falls asleep in his arms every night…it lights something within him that he’s not felt in years. There’s an ember in his veins. It’s small, a fragile coal just beginning to glow, but with time, he wonders if it too will end in a pyre. 

*****

They make camp just outside the city, near a cliff face to protect them on one side and minimize danger. Ja'far has the coin to pay for a stay at an inn, but he doesn’t trust being so close to civilization after the attack. He won’t let anyone harm Fenya. Princess or not, she is a child. She doesn’t deserve harm.

While Fenya plays with Kostya in the snow, Ja'far communes with Purple. 

“We should take her across the border, get her on a ship to Sindria,” Ja'far says.

“Sindria?”

“I have some political sway there. She’ll be safe and treated well.” And it isn’t a lie, though he doesn’t feel it necessary to share how deep his political ties run. That his best friend is king, his late fiancé was the previous king, and that he himself is supposed to be an advisor of the country. It isn’t relevant.

“And why can’t we go with her?” Purple asks, drawing anxiety from Ja'far. 

There _ was _ an issue. Ja'far is aware that Purple is just a man, and missing memories aside, he likely isn’t harboring any world changing secrets. But… He bears a striking resemblance to Sin, a man who had thrown the world into chaos more than once. To say Purple would be unwelcome in Sindria, where the biggest personal blow was dealt (who there could forget their king’s betrayal when their country is named after him?) would be a massive trivialization of his crimes. Purple may not be responsible, but there’s no guarantee the citizens wouldn’t condemn him anyway.

Ja'far refuses to let that be even a possibility.

Yet, he can’t exactly say this. How could he just tell an innocent man, ‘By the way, you share a face with a dead man that the entire world despises?’ He can’t, so he doesn’t. Instead, he chooses his words carefully.

“Purple hair is not entirely welcome there anymore. We can keep traveling. Find out who you were, if you want. ” It’s not enough–will never be enough–but it seems to pacify Purple for the time being. He doesn’t ask further questions.

“Very well. We’ll make sure Fenya is safe, and then we’ll travel together.”

*****

“Why do you wear earrings like that?” Purple asks him one night, after Fenya falls asleep. “What if they get torn out?”

“They’re special,” Ja'far replies, words distant. He almost wants to ask why Purple doesn’t wear any earrings considering he has the telltale holes. He doesn’t. Instead, his mind wanders.

_ (For a short time after Sin’s death, Ja'far had swaddled himself in old clothes (despite the judgmental eyes of others), and locked himself away in his quarters. It had only been a day or two. Not nearly enough time to mourn, not really. But it was enough for Ja'far to piece his facade back together and return to his daily duties. Nobody commented on how tired he looked, how red and swollen his eyes were, or how ruffled his clothing was. Nobody brought up how quiet and distant he was, a fragment of the advisor who had once served the now fallen king. _

_ But, there had been the earrings. _

_ Ja'far wore them proudly, his old and much smaller ones stowed away at the bottom of his wardrobe. People did comment on these; ‘They suit you’, some said. ‘They look heavy,’ others would add. Maybe, for some, especially those who didn’t know him, they seemed excessive, _ ** _gaudy_ ** _ even. He never admitted he wore the jewelry of a dead man, but Drakon always knew.) _

Ja'far isn’t sure what compels him to act. It’s a moment of weakness, perhaps, and certainly a moment of stupidity. Hesitantly, he brings a hand to his ear and removes a single ring. His wrist shakes the entire time, and Purple looks completely stunned- He places the ring through the hole in Purple’s own ear, and it fits like it was made for him. _ Was it? _

They both stay frozen for some time before Ja'far cuts the tension away. “It suits you.” Ja'far wonders if these are his own words, Sin’s, or a ghost of all the people who echoed the same to him. But it does suit him, more than Ja'far is willing to admit, even to himself.

“I-Is this okay-?”

Ja'far nods, something genuine and deep filling his slight smile. “Keep it. You look good.”

They stay by the fire even when they sleep; they have to, given the weather, but Ja'far feels something warm and tight flutter through him. It is a warm ray of sun when the clouds part. It is the first blooming flower when the green season rolls around. It is the first sip of water, refreshing and invigorating his consciousness after a long desert trip.

As his eyes finally close, he knows what this feeling is; fondness. 

Yet, he is terrified, for with fondness comes loss.

*****

He kisses purple later, after another successful hunt. 

There’s blood on his cheek again, on his clothes and in his hair. He can smell the sharp sting or iron. He’s intoxicated with adrenaline, the heat and fervor of the kill still thrumming in his veins. He wants to keep moving, to keep killing. He wants, oh god he _ wants. _ He wants to grab and bite and _ devour _, until there’s nothing left to consume and he implodes into nothing.

_ He wants. _

And then Purple is _ right there, _ right in his space, offering a hand, to help him up, probably, but Ja'far can’t _ think. _ ** _He wants_ ** _ . _

“Ja'far, what-“

He grabs Purple and pulls him down, then. There is no thought to his actions, only heat and desperation. After a surprised pause, the kiss is eagerly reciprocated, all sharp movements and rough touches. Ja'far whines up into Purple’s mouth, fingers scratching for hold in ruffled fabrics. He’s falling ever deeper into the abyss that he’s carved. He should push Purple away, stop this madness before it begins, before he passes the point of return, but it feels _ right. _He wants Purple, more than he’s wanted anyone since- 

_ Sin _.

His heat dies, hands going limp, and mouth freezing. Thankfully, Purple notices and pulls away before Ja'far finds the need to shove him. “Sorry,” Ja'far mutters, staring shamefully at his friend’s chest. “That was unbecoming of me. I’ll keep my hands to myself next time.”

Purple states at him. “Are you dumb?”

“Excuse me?” Maybe he is, he’s never had good judgement surrounding his desires.

“I want you, Ja'far,” Purple says, and the world melts. “You didn’t come onto me anymore than I came onto you. But it’s fine if you aren’t ready for more. We can take it slow.”

He thinks, with the logical part of his brain, that he should say no. He should tell Purple he’s not interested, back off, and put distance between them, like he promised himself in the beginning. But then, he’d just be denying himself again. 

There’s something bittersweet on the edge of his tongue when he thinks of his past, of Sin, and of the memories they shared. But he wants Purple, and he knows that Sin wouldn’t wish him to linger in misery. So instead, he says, “Okay,” and he lets Purple’s lips lovingly meet his own. 

*****

(Kissing becomes a regular occurrence. They never remove any clothing, but then, after that first encounter, their chaste intimacy is frequent. Ja'far wakes Purple with gentle kisses. It’s all fluttering lips and soft brushes of fingertips against cheeks.

In passing, they allow themselves to touch every chance they get. A subtle caress of hands against his forearm, a sweep of affection through his hair after a fight, a graze of their shoulders or thighs. The gestures are small enough that they may be easily overlooked if one did not pay close attention, but Ja'far knows what they have is real. It’s real, and even though somewhere he still feels he’s betraying Sin, he feels that things are finally falling into place. They will take Fenya to safety, and then Ja'far will be free to settle with his new lover.)

*****

“Ja'far, did we kiss?” 

The whispered question is far from what Ja'far expects when Purple breaks their comfortable silence. They’re flush against each other in a singular bedroll, having long since closed the gap. At first Ja'far justified it as a way to share body heat (“_ It’s practical _ ,” _ he’d said, “this way we’re less likely to freeze.” Nevermind that they had a fire and the warmth of an oversized canine. Nevermind that Ja'far had never felt chilled in his bedroll alone. Nevermind that the only warmth he’s actually gaining is that in his chest. It placates his longing, he knows that, he just doesn’t want to admit to it.). _

He rests his forehead against Purple’s shoulder. _ Did they–? What? Is this a rhetorical question? _Ja'far isn’t sure if Purple is messing with him or if he’s just missed some very crucial piece of information. “Uh. Yes. We’ve done that a lot lately. Are you alright?”

“No, I mean _before_."

_ Oh. _

“I think I remember now–I...” 

_ Oh no. _ Ja'fars blood is ice, his flesh, stone. He is petrified, anxiety tingling under the edge of his skin, but still keeping him rigid. _ Oh fuck. He can’t breathe. _

“These... I gave you a matching set. We were to marry.”

He’s hyperventilating now, he knows, he knows, he can’t breathe–oh fuck, he can’t _ do this _ . He’d finally moved on and accepted that, maybe, he could find happiness elsewhere. He’d made his peace. This isn’t _ fair. Breathe, Ja'far, just breathe- _-

“You called me Sin.”

The world bursts.

There’s a hand on his shoulder again, and words, somewhere. Purple is trying to comfort him, but it does little. This is too much for him to handle. He’s tried so fucking hard to get over his past, to stop loving a dead man and live for himself. He’s finally starting to settle, but he _ isn’t _. The universe is cruel, sadistic even. It’s his fault for getting complacent, his fault for daring to have his own assumptions and desires. It’s his fault. Always his fault.

Now, he’s _ torn _. The man he thought he loved was dead, but now the man he thought to be dead is alive, and in fact, the man he thought he was falling for. (And he was falling hard. Now he’s not sure.) He can’t tell where his emotions lie anymore. He isn’t sure where his love for Sin ends and where his feelings for Purple begin or if they can be separated at all.

_ Does it matter? _

He sobs and chokes and _ screams _ into dark hair and damp furs, gentle hands seeking to comfort him. It does little to soothe him, but it grounds him to reality. Everything is too much. He feels and he wants and he tries so fucking hard to just _ breathe _. 

But nothing, absolutely nothing, can heal the wound that was just carved open again; Fenya is a princess, but Purple is _ his king. _


	3. Beyond Golden Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s been immune to toxins most of his life, but betrayal has no cure. _This is justice._ Sin brought it upon himself the second he spoke his lies–
> 
> Ja'far only wishes he could stop the guilt long enough to believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to OllieTamale and BastetCG for helping me get this fic finished and polished!!

## ( iii. )

Everything is fine. (It isn't.)

Ja'far is fine. (He’s lying to himself.)

He’s… functioning. They’re functioning. They’re making progress in their journey and that’s what matters. To get through to Northern Mistania and to a port they can trust. It will still take them a few weeks, even moving as fast as they are (and oh, he is so grateful that he and Purple are fit enough to keep going, and Kostya is able to carry Fenya on his back.).

Purple ignores Ja'far’s hesitancy. He doesn’t comment on the way Ja'far avoids eye contact and focuses dimly on the frigid ground. He doesn’t speak of how Ja'far shies away from their usual intimacy, flinches at his soft touches, and sometimes avoids them altogether - nor does he mention it when Ja'far does touch him, but the action is forced. 

Ja'far struggles to retain some semblance of normalcy, in equal measure for himself, for Purple, and for Fenya. Purple _ (Or should Ja'far call him Sin now? He isn’t sure.) _ doesn’t remember being king. It isn’t fair for Ja'far to project his turmoil on an ignorant man. 

He remembers their travels together. He remembers meeting their friends and allies. (Sin even asks how they’re doing, and if they know he’s gone.) He remembers watching Ja'far grow, both as a warrior and as a man. He remembers later, after he becomes king, falling in love, and later, courtship. Yet, he does not remember his royal status, his duty, or the politics. He doesn’t remember his mad quest for still _ more power, _nor his ambition for world unity that ultimately turned to ash and ended in tragedy. 

Ja'far isn’t sure if he’s relieved or betrayed, but either way, it grows more difficult to feign contentment.

*****

_ [ “It’s for your safety,” Sin says, “I won’t have my future queen slaughtered before we can be wed.” _

_ There are chains around his neck, strong, menacing, and tight. He chokes on the miasma of desire and possession pouring from his lover’s lips. He is a kept pet, feasting on the scraps of gold and wine his master drops him. He may bat his eyes and sway his hips and Sin will cave and give in, but it isn’t what he really wants. He isn’t a queen to lock in a gilded cage, he is a beast, desperate to run and slaughter and maim his now nonexistent prey. _

_ He needs to run. He wants to run. He wants to escape. _

_ But there are still chains around his throat, gold and glimmering and placed there by his own hand. Sin did not do this to him; not really. These shackles are his own making, forged by his own loyalty. No matter how badly he wants them to shatter, he knows they never will. ] _

*****

As Sin regains his memory, he becomes more of himself. Sin’s overbearing persona and condescension had always irritated him. Even when his actions were well-intended, a lot of what he did ate away at Ja'far’s autonomy. Now, they are both settling back into roles Ja'far had long forgotten.

It starts small.

They’re cleaning up an animal he’d killed, knives skillfully separating fur from flesh. Fenya is waiting patiently for another meal, babbling away about how pretty the stars are tonight, and Kostya is once more curled protectively around her. All in all, it should be a picturesque family scene–Ja'far cutting meat, Sin cooking it, and their child (he knows she isn’t really _ theirs. _) waiting eagerly for food. Something is off. Ja'far doesn’t place what it is until a firm hand settles on his shoulder, his knife still buried deep in the sinews of his kill.

“Let me take over, you should rest.” 

Ahh. 

Sin means well, Ja'far is certain, but he is encroaching upon a task that Ja'far can easily perform, and very much wants to do. He shakes his head. “I’m fine, I like working with my hands.”

Sin frowns, his grip on Ja'far’s shoulder tightens, and for a brief moment, Ja'far feels genuine fear that he might _ force _his stop. He doesn’t, instead replying, “You don’t need to, let me help you”

Ja'far just shakes his head, shoves away the hand, and continues working.

Sin lets it go, but things only spiral from there.

Next time they move camp, Ja'far is about to leave on his usual hunt, hands itching to fight. No matter how content he grew in the past, he’s never been able to fully ditch his instinctual desire for blood. And now, with his emotions volatile and confusing as they are, he wants nothing more than an outlet. But Sin’s hands are on his shoulder again, and his lover asks ‘Won’t you stay here with Fenya? It’s dangerous out there,’ and suddenly, Ja'far finds himself backed into a corner he’d never wanted to return to. 

But Fenya had begged–_ pleaded– _for him to stay and play with her, and Ja'far, as strong as he is, still can’t say no to a desperate child. So he stays.

And keeps doing so, again and again, anytime Sin pushes him to stay behind with Fenya.

Ja'far can tolerate being left at camp from time to time, but he draws the line when Sin tries to goad him into giving up his fighting entirely. There’s a disturbance in a nearby village from bandits, and in order to keep Fenya safe, Ja'far offers to go take out the threat. Sin, however, insists he stay behind. To watch Fenya, he says, but Ja'far doesn’t believe it for even one second.

“I don’t appreciate what you’re doing,” Ja'far finally snaps, fingers balled and nails scratching at his palms.

“I don’t understand; I’m trying to protect you both. I don’t want anything to happen to–”

“Stop. You forget,” Ja'far hisses, “that I am more than capable of fighting. I am an assassin, I used to kill by trade. All this protection nonsense? It’s _ dehumanizing _ . So _ stop.” _

Sin’s shocked expression is almost satisfying. “I wasn’t trying to-” 

“Well, that’s how I feel. So stop. Let me live my life.” 

Sin does drop the subject, and he _ does _try not to trod on Ja'far’s toes any longer. He doesn’t try to pull Ja'far out of fights, and Ja'far, finally, feels the collar at his throat loosen. 

*****

Despite the changes in Sin’s treatment, Ja'far still feels a growing unease. He still avoids contact, and at some point, he migrated back to his own bedroll, which previously had remained rolled up and stowed away with the rest of their meager belongings. Once again, Sin hunts, Ja'far left behind to tend to the fire with Fenya. This time, the choice of topic is serious.

“Ja'far, why don’t you and Purple hug anymore?”

Ja'far flinches. Is he doing that bad a job of hiding his grievances, or is Fenya just that perceptive? He knows how intelligent children can be, but he hadn’t thought he’d been _ obvious _. “What do you mean?”

“You used to hug all the time, but now you just walk away when he tries. Did he hurt you? I think he’s sad because you don’t hug. You should hug him.”

“It’s…complicated.” Ja'far licks his lips. He isn’t about to explain the intricacies of relationships and their subsequent problems to a _ child _, but he knows he can’t simply change the subject. “We disagree sometimes, and I’m not always comfortable with…”

“Don’t you miss hugging him?”

“...I suppose,” he murmurs, recalling the press of lips against his own.

“Hug him! He wants to hug you.” She turns, running off to go play in the snow, and Ja'far is left with her words buzzing in one ear. 

Maybe she’s right. Maybe this can be fixed if he just lets himself seek intimacy with Sin. Maybe, all he has to do is hold the man he’s been avoiding. He doubts it. The suggestion is a conveniently low hanging fruit; it’s much too simple. There’s some nuance or trick that he’s missing. Fruit hanging low to the ground rots faster. A kiss can’t magically repair years of broken trust. 

Can anything fix them? Ja’far isn’t sure.

He does take the fruit set out for him, in the end. It’s overripe, much too sweet, and messy. When he kisses Sin on his arrival, the sweetness spoils. He can’t escape the bitter taste or the desire to run from his problems.

*****

At their next encampment, Ja’far almost misses the attack. The first arrow flies past him quickly, with malice and fluidity strong enough to destroy. His hackles go up, he glances at his allies to ensure their safety, but primarily he shifts around the forest in search of the source. Kostya barks once in warning, lets out a fearsome growl, and then the world is a blizzard of combat.

Ja'far loses track of how many men he fells, letting the hunger of battle and the longing to protect guide his movements. Kostya stands over Fenya, snarling and fighting off any who do manage to get through Ja'far and Sin, which is not many. They are fury incarnate, their practiced movements synchronized into a fatal dance. Each clash of steel only serves to strengthen their ferocity. Suddenly, the fight is over. They are safe - or they should be.

But Kostya falls.

In his rush to keep Fenya safe, Ja'far had overlooked arguably the most crucial detail--where that first arrow met its mark. He’d checked for Fenya’s safety first, and she’d been fine. Sin, too, had been outside the arrow’s path. Carmine seeps into Kostya’s fur just above his shoulder, and Ja'far knows he’s fucked up. 

The arrow isn’t big, nor is it lodged deep. Even after removal, there isn’t much blood. Kostya is massive, a mountain of strength towering over the meadow that is Fenya. Losing so little blood _ shouldn’t _ be enough to bring him down. Ja'far _ knows. _ He’s a fighter, and he knows the limitations of mortal bodies: human, animal, and otherwise. He _ knows _ this shouldn’t be enough. He _ knows. _ But when he sniffs at the head of the extracted arrow, he’s met with a sickly sweet and very familiar smell, and he _ knows _ he’s made a mistake _ . _

Ja'far gets to work immediately, pulling out his antidote kit - there’s not much he can actually _ do _ given he’s never treated poisons in animals before, but he does try. He knows what poison was used, has used it himself hundreds of times before. He knows there isn’t much he can do, but he _ tries. _

Fenya anxiously sits next to him, and Sin has to pull her away. “What’s going to happen to Kostya?” she asks.

“Kostya will be fine,” Ja'far hisses out, voice breaking.

Another lie, another liar. He and Sin have this in common, still.

*****

They bury Kostya in the snow. 

It’s not ideal, but it’s the best they can manage under the circumstances. They have to keep moving, or they, too, might fall victim in the next attack. Ja'far has thrown himself headfirst into danger before. Death is an old dancing partner; they’re quite intimate. But now he has someone to protect, whose life depends on his own continued existence. 

Fenya cries, at first. Her sobs nearly break Ja'far’s heart all over again, and he does everything he can to walk tall. It wouldn’t do for him to shut down too. Fenya needs some type of role model. When she quiets, Ja'far wonders if she’s too tired to keep crying He offers her a timid hug. Immediately, she buries her face in his baggy clothes. Sin backs off to scout the area and give them some space.

“Kostya won’t wake up, will he.”

Ja'far wants to reassure her, to tell her that no, he’s only napping, _ he’ll be fine _–but then, that would be a lie, and he isn’t cruel enough to deceive a child. “No,” he says instead, voice empty.

“Oh.” Fenya just stares at the mound of snow piled on top of her former guard. After a pause, she continues, “My parents… Aren’t waiting for me either, are they? They can’t come back.”

And this, _ this _ is what makes Ja'far want to scream. It’s one thing to lose a dog, but another entirely to lose _ family _ . “No. They can’t.” His voice is wary now, his emotions sharp. He wants to correct himself, to cry and yell and change his words, to say that actually, yes, sometimes people _ can _ come back. Sin did for him, after all. Sometimes wishes do come true. But he doesn’t know how the fuck Sin survived or how he ended up here. He certainly doesn’t know how to tell a child that he’s lucky enough to regain a loss she never will. He’s selfish enough to want to _ run _.

So, he tells her to share stories of her parents, her home, and Kostya. It’s not much, but it _ can _ help, and he is here to listen.

“Okay,” she says. 

Ja'far listens to her stories for hours, even after Sin returns, all the while pondering at the irony of his own reality. He’d wanted so badly for Sin to return to him. At one point, he might have even prayed for it. (Ja'far had never believed in any higher power, and he still doesn’t.) Now Sin is back, and he should feel nothing but joy. He should embrace this second chance for what it is–a gift, a _ miracle _. He isn’t happy, though. He longs to return to Sindria and pretend none of this ever happened.

Gifts are only gifts in intent–this is the second time Sin has stolen his heart, but this time, he’s also stolen Ja'far’s future.

*****

Ja'far tries to seek intimacy with Sin–for real, this time, the way lovers are meant to. It’s easy enough to forget what they’ve been through when fevered lips are pressed against his own, fingers tangled in messy hair and wrinkled clothes. Ja'far whines, soft and needy against Sin, and clings to him as though separation might kill them both. They have to keep quiet, as Fenya still sleeps across the firelight, but for a moment, Ja'far _ forgets _.

“My king,” he murmurs, mesmerized, before he realizes his slip up and goes rigid. “I… Apologies. I didn’t mean to-”

“Shh,” Sin purrs, “I’m your king, Ja'far. It’s okay, I know. I remember.” 

This should be confirmation to continue. It should be something that sets his mind at ease, that urges him further into trust and adoration. Instead, it is an arrow, rusted and covered in toxins, wedged deep into his ribcage. He tenses up. Sin frowns.

“Ja'far? What’s wrong? We can stop-“

“I’m sorry, I–just–I’m sorry.” He pushes Sin away, the final blow that ensures their relationship crumbles around them.

They do not embrace. There isn’t any form of physical contact as sleep claims the star-crossed lovers, nor any the following day, nor any days in the week thereafter. Ja'far feels dread and disgust flood his gut. More overbearing, though, is the guilt, then the shame. Finally, there’s _ resentment _. 

Sin remembers. 

It’s not much, but he’s starting to regain his former self. He’s already growing his hair out again, he might become the same person, and who’s Ja'far to stop that? He might regain his same ideals, his goals–

_ Would he remember his lies? _

It’s difficult to say what would be worse; if he remembers and apologizes, or remains in amnestic ignorance forever. Ja'far isn’t sure he could handle either. That doubt, that _ fear; _it’s twisting and coiling in his bloodstream, poisoning him. It’s tainting their interactions, but he’s helpless to stop it. 

He’s been immune to toxins most of his life, but betrayal has no cure. _ This is justice _. Sin brought it upon himself the second he spoke his lies–

Ja'far only wishes he could stop the guilt long enough to believe it.

*****

“What do you remember?” Ja'far finally asks, when he can’t stand the tension or the silence any longer.

“Everything.” Sin’s response is simple, blunt. This is the confirmation, the confession Ja'far has been waiting for. Yet, it’s lacking.

“And? What do you have to say?”

He remembers.

“I lied to you. I hurt you. I’m sorry for that.” Sin apologizes, and for a moment, Ja'far’s breathing stops. Ja'far thinks that maybe things between them might be normal again, that they really can repair whatever disaster they’ve fallen into. Then, Sin adds, “I don’t regret it. I did what I had to,” and Ja'far’s emotions ignite.

_ Sin remembers. _

Ja'far has forgiven him. He’s forgiven him a thousand times for every sin pressed into his name, and he has spoken words of loyalty, praise, and downright adoration. He has forgiven him for his conquests, for his mistakes, and his flaws. He has divorced an entire lifetime, throwing even his humanity to the fires of hell, once. And maybe, this was always meant to be his downfall.

If there is one thing Ja’far cannot forgive, it’s the lies. 

“I’m sorry,” Sin says, cold eyes fixated on Ja'far.

“You’re not. I deserve better than an empty apology.”

*****

_ [ The sparkling marble architecture is noticeable, even at night. It is not sound that wakes him, nor any disturbance, but instinct. He is alone in a shared room -. Ja’far is on edge as he stands and dresses, and more so as he wanders the halls in search of his king. _

_ Sin is, likewise, fully dressed when Ja’far questions him. Political tensions are mounting, and if he does not do something, Sin will lose all he has worked for. Ja’far nudges. Sin deflects. _

_ “I’m going to rewrite the world,” he says, “it may kill me.” And this, this--it is pathetic, weak! It is madness, and Ja’far tells him so. _

_ Sin’s ambition has always been a wild storm; there is nothing that can contain him if he sets his mind alight. This time it is Ja’far who surges with crackling, electric motions. He shouts and he cries, all desperate words and wild gestures, and finally, he begs, “Don’t throw away everything you’ve worked for! Don’t run away from the present, Sinbad!” _

_ It should be enough, he thinks. His intentions are cut raw, exposed to Sin with all his loyalty and affections. And Sin nods, smiles, and apologizes. Ja’far exhales in relief. This happy dream, this memory, is absent of the dread that comes later, when Sin ignores everything Ja’far had asked of him and acts on his greed for power. ] _

*****

They make it to their destination; a small port city in the northernmost part of Mistania. Here, Fenya will board a ship to Imachakk and then another to Sindria. Ja'far has already written letters to his allies for Fenya to deliver, and he trusts that she will arrive safely. She will be welcomed into both countries and guided to a new home and a new life.

When Ja'far attempts to coax her into boarding, however, she is hesitant. “Please don’t leave me, Mister Ja'far. I’ll miss you.”

Guilt fills him. He heavily considers boarding that ship with her. He’s lost all love of traveling with Sin, so there’s nothing holding him back. But something does still tie him down. An invisible shackle, a collar, much like the one that had once adorned Sin’s throat, now anchors him to a man he should be trying to escape. So he stands his ground and shakes his head. “No, I have to keep going, Fenya. You’ll be safe, and someday, I’ll see you again in Sindria.” That much, at least, he truly means.

The ship captain and crew urge them to hurry things up. Ja'far leaves her. Her disappointment and sorrow fall to deaf ears. He is numb stepping off, as though he walks towards imprisonment. And really, is that not what this is? He’s taking the collar and chains he’d once shed and locking them around his throat anew. Instead of returning to his _ family, _ Ja’far lingers in an empty companionship. Some things are worse than death, and while Ja'far has never stopped to consider _ what _, he thinks this might be.

They wander, and Sin tries to make small talk, but something’s off. Ja'far knows he can be paranoid at times, his instincts often digging deeper than reasonable, but this is different. He _ knows _ he should listen to this feeling. There’s something very, _ very wrong. _

“Sin.” He says, eyes manic, fists clenched. “Don’t you think they were rather hurried?”

“Well, they must be on a schedule.”

“No.” The timing is too perfect, too staged to be coincidental. “I find it odd, that they choose the _ exact _ moment we arrive to shoo us away for departure. Maritime trade may require time management, but there’s no reason they wouldn’t have already left if they were in such a hurry.”

He shudders, ferocity and protection sparking in his eyes. In this moment, he is no longer Ja'far, former adviser and best friend of Sindria’s king. He is not Ja'far, travel companion to Purple, nor is he Ja'far, ex-lover of a man who wears his fiance’s face. In this moment, he is Ja'far, the assassin, and the world had best shake and tremble in his wake for daring to harm his family.

He sprints back to the shipyard, Sin trailed behind him, only to find the same boat Fenya boarded stripped bare, all people gone, except one lingering crew member. In a flash, the man is pinned beneath him, Ja'far’s dagger kissing the edge of his throat. 

“Where is she?” Ja'far hisses. The man squirms and writhes under him, but Ja'far only edges the dagger deeper. There is genuine fear in the man’s eyes, and Ja'far basks in it, serpentine reflexes readying to strike.

“They’re taking her to the end of the shipyard! There’s a small boat, headed back to the capital. Please spare me!” Ja'far doesn’t listen, blade already drawn. This man doesn’t deserve his mercy, not now, not _ ever. _He doesn’t care for one begging animal. He’ll slaughter a thousand if it means protecting who he cares for.

And then they’re running, movements driven by the desperate hope that they’ll make it in time. They have to. Ja'far doesn’t know what he’ll do if they don’t, but he refuses to consider the possibility. They _ will _ make it. They will. _ They have to. _

*****

The kidnappers–assassins? whatever–haven’t had much opportunity for planning by the time Ja'far and Sin find them. Fenya is fine, if a bit frazzled. She’s not even tied up, something which both relieves and confuses Ja'far. They’ve been fighting bandits and assassins the whole journey, the idea that they would simply forget to tie up a victim so close to their retribution is absurd. Ja'far’s eyes narrow, instincts on edge.

“We shouldn’t approach head-on,” Sin murmurs, and for once, Ja'far agrees. “They might try something with her.”

However, before they can formulate a plan of attack, a man, seemingly the leader, steps up beside them. “I thought you’d come. Welcome, my apologies for the decor–we don’t usually settle in one place for long.” Ja'far moves a hand to grip a dagger’s hilt, but the man shakes a finger. “Ahh! I wouldn’t do that. Wouldn’t want an arrow between the poor girl’s eyes, after all.”

For the moment, Ja'far stills.

He can see a handful of men and women, some armed with daggers or swords, some not. The forces don’t seem threatening alone, but there might be more lurking in the shadows–archers, perhaps, maybe even mages. Ja'far can’t risk it. Not with Fenya.

“What do you want?” he growls, and the man raises a brow.

“We wanted to overthrow the government, you know. We did, but part of the royal family got away.” _ Fenya. _ “So we tracked her. Surprisingly _ easy _ when she still travels with such... _ unique _ company. Her family really screwed us over, so we had _ special plans.” _

_ Shit. _ Of course they’d stand out. Ja'far was well known as a diplomat worldwide, even amongst this country he’d barely traveled. And Sin… Well, one would have to exist in the void to miss _ him. _ “You want revenge. On a _ child.” _

The man nods. “Oh, we did.”

_ But. There’s always a but. _

Time seems to stop as the man unsheathes a blade, the tip pressing deep enough into Sin’s throat for crimson to bead onto his skin. “...We found something better.” 

Better. _ Sin. _ Sin was…Ja'far’s heart stops, his muscles rigid and twitching with suppressed rage. The absurdity of it is shocking, but it stings. It’s _ real. This is happening. _ They didn’t want their petty revenge on Fenya, a child barely old enough to know what being royalty meant. _ No _ , that wouldn’t ever be enough. They wanted their revenge on Sin, the man who had single-handedly dismantled, reassembled, and nearly destroyed the entire world in a quest for power. They wanted Sin, and, looking into the man’s eyes, Ja'far knew he would do _ anything _to chase his vengeance.

“This single, mortal man ruined everything we had, everything we knew. And here he is, alive, when he’s supposed to be dead. But do you know what happens when a mortal gets cut?” He asks, sword poking harder. “_ They bleed. _ So, I offer you this. You can have the girl, I’ll even escort you onto a boat unharmed. But I get _ him. _”

Ja'far shouldn’t consider it. He really, desperately tries not to. Human lives are not a currency with which to barter. He can't just trade one life for another. It’s immoral. Yet, there is temptation. He considers the offer, thinks it through in its entirety, and for a moment, it seems desirable. He could accept, be free of the burden Sin has placed on him for the past few weeks, and leave with Fenya, safe. If he did, nobody would ever have to know the truth - that Ja'far bargained away the life of a man who shouldn’t be alive in the first place. It would be justice, raw and pure. For a moment, Ja'far nearly opens his mouth and accepts--

Sin’s eyes meet his own for a single second, but with that one look, he knows that things will be fine. Sin slides around the blade, knocking his head into the man and sending him off balance. The motion still cuts his throat, blood dripping to the floor, but it’s not enough to pose an immediate threat to his life. The shock surrounding Sin’s action is universal around the dock, and it gives Ja'far just enough time to rush to Fenya. 

Decision made, they fight.

It is far from an easy battle. Ja'far and Sin are pushed to their limits and back, acting both as protectors and aggressors. Ja'far kills three mercenaries easily, reactions quick and expertly timed. Sin ensures that no one else approaches. (Ja'far is grateful that, in regards to distance fighters, their leader had been bluffing.)

Ja'far is left with their leader. The man is practiced with his sword–more so than anyone Ja'far has fought in _ years _ . He knows what he’s doing, and he’s able to parry and counter nearly every slice and lunge Ja'far throws his way. Ja'far manages to hold his ground, but something sets his nerves alight. It almost feels as though the man is… toying with him. That’s when reality sets in - this man is _ playing _with him, and he is nothing more than prey, set to be torn apart once his movements are memorized.

It happens quickly.

There is a blade rushing to his chest, leaving him little time to react. It feels like decades that he can see its path, but he can’t move, can’t force his muscles to propel him out of the way. Ja'far closes his eyes, readying himself for the embrace of death, but just so, Ja'far realizes Fenya has joined the fray.

She’d run forward and latched onto the man’s leg. Just as the blade is set to connect, the man falters, stumbling a little both from surprise and misplaced balance. That opening is all Ja'far needs, dagger flying straight into his throat, blood coating the ground as he falls limp.

He grabs Fenya, cleaner hand covering her eyes. She’s seen enough violence already that it scarcely makes a difference, but he can’t stomach the thought of tainting her childhood anymore. Sin lays a hand on his shoulder, and he pushes it away with a snarl. He doesn’t need a reminder of the decision he had nearly made, he really doesn’t. Everything turns out fine, the three of them are safe and _ alive, _but Ja'far is less than human. 

Sin says, “I know you wouldn’t have done it, for what it’s worth.” And _ oh, doesn’t he know. _

Ja'far wants to laugh, to spit in his face and say how wrong he is. But he refrains. He had dared trade a man he once loved with every fiber in his being for a child at the whim of a madman, and he will bear that guilt for the rest of his life. And the worst part, he thinks, is that this is all because he will never receive a sincere apology. That, alone, is quite enough.

*****

When the boat arrives (the proper one this time, Ja'far triple checks), he and Fenya prepare to board. This time, he has made his final decision. He will return, side by side, with his new family, to Sindria.

In the end, Sin still has the audacity to approach him. “So you’re leaving.” 

“Consider it my last gift as a former lover that I’m not turning you in,” Ja'far snaps. 

“I’m sorry--“

“Stop. We both know you aren’t, and you’re not going to be. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

Sin doesn’t respond.

“You know, even with _ everything _ you did, I might have forgiven you, if not for the lying.” He sighs. “For fuck’s sake, Sin, I could forgive you for betraying our friends, for going mad with power and ambition, for nearly destroying everything–” his eyes burn now, tears he’s been holding back their whole journey threatening to spill. “But I can’t forgive that you lied to me. The one time I begged you as your fiancé and oldest friend to stay strong, you fucking lied! And no matter how much you say you’ve changed, you still can’t give me a genuine apology.”

“Ja'far-“

“Don’t. I’m going home now. I’m going to live my life and look out for my country, and nothing you say will ever stop me or make me turn back. We’re done, Sin.”

And to prove to Sin - or maybe himself - that he’s serious, he removes the gold ring still dangling from his ear, and places it into Sin’s hands. It feels surreal doing so when he’s spent so many years wearing similar jewelry to represent his undying love. But all things must eventually end, and this was to be expected. Fenya is waiting for him.

“This is it. Goodbye,” he says.

Then, Ja'far steps onto the ship and relinquishes his devotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Thank you to everyone who has read this fic, it means a lot to me! <3

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is done, and ended just under 13K words! Parts two and three will be going up within the next couple weeks, and are a bit longer ahaha~


End file.
